A soft murmur of New York’s high society floated through the elegant restaurant, blending with the gentle clinking of crystal glasses. Nathaniel Sterling, a man whose reputation ruled boardrooms for decades, sat at the central table. His posture was flawless, his custom suit pristine, and beside him was his wife, Vivienne Cross, radiant in a graceful evening dress. For years, Nathaniel had been the embodiment of control — steady, untouchable.
But tonight, that image began to crumble.
A young waitress approached, carrying two plates with effortless poise. She appeared no older than twenty, dressed modestly, yet there was a quiet strength in her demeanor. As she set Nathaniel’s meal before him, their eyes briefly met.
In that instant, he froze.
Something in her gaze struck him like a powerful wave — familiarity, recognition, a memory buried deep in time.
Fifteen years ago, precisely.
“Yes, sir?” she said, noticing his sudden pause. “Are you alright?”
Nathaniel’s throat tightened. “What… is your name?”
The young woman hesitated. “Aurora, sir. Aurora Bennett.”
Vivienne’s expression darkened. “Nathaniel, what are you doing? She’s just a waitress.”
But Nathaniel couldn’t tear his eyes away. His heartbeat quickened. “Aurora… may I know your last name?”
She frowned in confusion. “I… I’m not sure. I grew up in foster care. I was told I was abandoned as a baby.”
The wine glass slipped from Nathaniel’s grasp, crashing onto the floor. The nearby conversations ceased. A hush fell over the entire restaurant.
Vivienne’s face went pale.